


They Outlawed Love So We Do It In The Dark

by stultiloquent



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1984, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, M/M, Prostitution, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-22 22:26:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/918730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stultiloquent/pseuds/stultiloquent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Consorting with prostitutes was forbidden, of course, but it was one of those rules that you could occasionally nerve yourself to break. It was dangerous, but it was not a life-and-death matter. To be caught with a prostitute might mean five years in a forced-labour camp: not more, if you had committed no other offence. […] Tacitly the Party was even inclined to encourage prostitution, as an outlet for instincts which could not be altogether suppressed. Mere debauchery did not matter very much, so long as it was furtive and joyless, and only involved the women of submerged and despised class.”<br/>-- George Orwell, <i>1984</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, a 1984!AU, how original. Go check it out on Wikipedia or something if you've never heard of it, but it's one of my favourite books of all time.
> 
> I should probably warn you that I'm bad at updates if you decide to bookmark this. I don't usually get writer's block but I'm bad at time management, so.
> 
> The other thing is that none of this is beta'd, so if you see any mistakes could you please kindly point them out to me. ^_^
> 
> Disclaimer: You know the drill. Don't own, never happened, blah.
> 
> ETA: I made myself a banner too! Woo~ #foreveralone  
> Photo credit: http://iwishihadasoul.tumblr.com/post/56871139567/w0nderland-with-alice-follow-for-more

 

 

As he shuffles quickly down the Jersey streets, Gerard huddles up, curling closer into his winter coat clad body. The blue-and-grey striped scarf is so worn-out that it barely does its job. Biting chills freeze Gerard’s neck whenever another gust of wind makes its way down the street, but these days it’s already considered lucky if one owns a scarf at all. Although, Gerard supposes they hand out free ones if you attend enough Party meetings and help out in enough community activities, and it doesn’t take a higher being to know that he’s never been the perfect Party member.

 

Stepping into the lobby of Victory Mansion is only marginally better, the indoors being only slightly warmer than the outdoors. But it provides a shelter from the wind, and Gerard will take what he can get. He supposes the building’s radiator system must be breaking down for the fifth time this month, and he catches himself. He shouldn’t keep count of such things, it makes him frown and then they’ll figure him out faster.

 

He walks down the hallway and bypasses the elevators, opting to take the stairs instead. It’s not that he feels like exercising; living in this building for almost all of his life has taught him to never rely on anything that involves technology. He takes each step slowly, hands grappling for the banister as he pants his way up to his floor. The lamp outside his door is still flickering, and somehow it feels like a greeting. At least some things don’t change. Familiarity is kind of hard to find these days, although he doesn’t think anybody else is as concerned with it as he is. If they were, they’d be as doomed as he is.

 

He shuffles into his apartment and closes the door behind him with a resounding click. He walks into the kitchen and pours himself a cup of Victory Gin, which is the most disgusting sort of alcohol one can ever consume (he’s convinced it is, even though he’s never had anything other type of alcohol to compare to) but at least it’s entitled to be disgusting. Drinking whatever they call coffee these days is even worse. Besides, alcohol is the fastest way to warm himself up. At least the radiator on his floor seems to be in better condition than the one in the lobby, so that he’s not actually freezing in his apartment.

 

He picks up the cup of gin and walks over to the coffee table, with the lone chair, mindful to turn down the telescreen’s volume on the way. The telescreen is a curious invention, he supposes, it being both a receiver and broadcaster of audiovisuals simultaneously. But one learns to be wary of them when they are placed everywhere he goes, like inescapable little spies for the Party. So he’s moved the furniture around so that the coffee table is mostly out of the telescreen’s perimeter. That’s the most he can do, since there is no way to turn off a telescreen, and certainly no way to move it without arousing suspicion. He places his cup of gin down on the coffee table, next to the only other object that’s occupying the surface, a leather-bound journal. Every time he sees the journal sitting there on the table, he can’t help but feel a jolt in his chest – knowing that he owns it, uses it, and still hasn’t been caught. It isn’t the greatest crime on the list, but it’s certainly illegal to own something that is not manufactured by the Party, especially something from before the revolutions. Something that is personal, something that is… bourgeois.

 

But Gerard’s in it too deep now. He’s been writing in the journal for a very long time, months, maybe even years. (It’s hard not to lose count of days when dates and events change constantly. There’s also the issue of calendars being nonexistent in probably the whole of Oceania.) He flips open the first blank page that follows his last entry and picks up his pen. He starts writing whatever comes to mind, and ends up describing the scene he saw earlier today in the Proletarian neighbourhood – that of a small child slowly dying of hunger. Just thinking about it is enough to make his heart ache, but he’s quick to silence whatever sounds he may make, and to school his features into neutrality. One sound may expose him to the telescreen.

 

He doesn’t always write; mostly he doodles meaningless things, things he has had in his head for years just waiting to be put on paper, but as far as he knows that’s even more dangerous. He’s creating original pieces, out of his own thoughts, thoughts that aren’t spoon-fed to him by the Party. Even if the little doodles aren’t giveaway enough, his blatantly unorthodox entries are certainly enough to act as evidence, evidence of him conceiving unorthodoxy thoughts. And that could only mean one thing. If he was ever caught, he would be charged with thoughtcrime.

 

 

_"Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime **is** death."_

_– Part I: Chapter II,_ 1984

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Newspeak Dictionary website gives the following definition for 'thoughtcrime':  
> To even consider any thought not in line with the principles of Ingsoc. Doubting any of the principles of Ingsoc. All crimes begin with a thought. So, if you control thought, you can control crime.  
> (Ingsoc = English Socialism = the doctrine in the 1984 verse. It's a bit hard to summarise it within a sentence so, once again, I'd suggest you Google the book.) 
> 
> Frank will make his entrance in the next chapter. Just to clear things up in advance, Gerard's in his late thirties and Frank's in his early twenties.
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter will be a lot longer.


	2. Ignorance Is Strength

 

Gerard wakes up from his dream with most of his back drenched in sweat, already cooling in the morning chill while his t-shirt is still stuck to his skin. It’s a horrible sensation, but he dares not to show any disgust on his face lest the telescreen sees it. He’s never had a chance to talk about dreams with anyone else, but he’s sure if they do suffer from nightmares as much as he does, they’ll keep their mouths shut about it. It’s never wise to reveal your mind’s deepest corners to others – it’s more or less the only place you can keep a sense of self. Besides, they’d probably think he’s neurotic, and these little details that render you different, render you abnormal – they’re best to be hushed up.

 

Just seconds after Gerard gets off his bed and starts folding up the sheets, the telescreen lets out a shrill cry to announce that it’s seven hours. A female voice subsequently sounds from the little machine, and Gerard wants to grumble. It’s the daily morning exercises again, or as they call it, the Physical Jerks. He has to fight to keep the frown off his face as the female instructor delivers, in that ever-enthusiastic voice of hers, “Good morning, comrades! Alright, stand up now!” Gerard’s never liked anything to remotely do with the sports, but Physical Jerks are mandatory. So he swallows down all his unwillingness, careful to keep his face fixed in grim enjoyment, while his mind wanders off. In his dream he saw the dimmed faces of his family again. They’re almost blurs, the memory of them so ancient that his mother’s face could be the same as the woman he passed by on the street the other day, but somehow his brother’s face stays clear. Mikey, that was his name, and they must have been really close as kids because Gerard can sometimes still feel the engulfing hugs he used to give Mikey. They are now no more than phantom imprints on his body, but it is enough to tug at his heartstrings. He doesn’t really remember how he lost touch with his family – most days he’s convinced they’re nothing more than dust and ashes now, but it must have been before he was even a teenager, before he was given a place in the Outer Party. Somehow it feels like he traded his family in for survival, and this morning he wishes, more than ever, that he was resting beneath the ground with them.

 

A yell of his name from the telescreen anchors him back to the present. At least that’s the only time he’s called on, and he counts that as a victory.

 

*

 

Every morning, except the weekends, Gerard takes the subway to commute to New York City. NYC is a regional capital city – at least, that’s what Gerard’s been told in school. He’s never really travelled out of the tri-state area, then again, he supposes only the members of the Inner Party have access to such privileges. He’s just one of the many Outer Party members working in NYC’s own branch of the Ministry of Truth, which is responsible for all sorts of media publication within Oceania. From a young age, the school has noticed his penchant for illustrating, and he’s at least clever enough to keep his original, less than orthodox creations out of sight when they recruited him onto the team that produces painfully propagandistic cartoons for the Party. Mostly he’s asked to recreate the style of the celebrated caricaturists that have gone down in history, legendary names such as Rutherford. It’s hardly creative.

 

Sometimes, he’d see a piece he’s helped work on, placed on one of the roadside posters, or published in _The New York Times_. They never arouse in him pride though – if anything, they just add to his ever-growing sense of self-loathe, because he’s an artist advocating a cause he doesn’t believe in. Yet almost at once, another feeling will rise in his chest, and take over – helplessness will swathe his entire being, because there is no other way he can get by. Without his job, he’d lose his title as an Outer Party member as well as the basic privileges he’s entitled to, and he wouldn’t survive a week in this city. There are few moments in his life when he is feeling neither powerless nor disgusted at himself. But then he realises, with a sinking feeling, that most days he’s already given up. It is almost impossible to keep one’s morals alive in a world where morals have been all bent out of shape – for decades.

 

Of course, one would easily go crazy, dwelling on this maddening subject all by himself. It is only morning, and there are still some things he can look forward to. So he turns to stare outside the windows on the train, just to give himself something to do. All he sees staring back at him is yet again a row of Big Brother posters, hanging vertically on the fronts of most buildings. They’re everywhere, that face always looming, watching. The expression lies somewhere between over-protective and menacing, and he can’t decide between the two. But one thing is for certain – to him, it’s most definitely creepy to find the moustached face following him wherever he goes, like some sort of newly-invented surveillance that gets under your skin. But it’s probably meant to evoke, in those unthinkingly devout Party members, a certain sense of belonging, if not pride.

 

And, as usual, sandwiched between the Big Brother posters, are the Party slogans, printed large and in bold.

**_WAR IS PEACE._ **

**_FREEDOM IS SLAVERY._ **

**_IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH._ **

Gerard has never understood the true meaning behind these three sentences – they seem to make no sense, their paradoxical nature entirely too befuddling. He’s never questioned them either, afraid of the very likely possibility that he’d be labelled an enemy of the state. The three sentences are, after all, the nationwide doctrine. But, having grasped their full meaning or not, some long-forgotten, primitive part of him is quick to object whenever he sees the slogans. There was a time when his country celebrated true freedom, he’s as sure of it as he is of the fact that he use to have a family. Besides, isn’t it an intrinsic concept of mankind? No animal would willingly ask for enslavement, and he’d expect the same of humans.

 

Except, he knows, very clearly, that he is alone in this belief, because nobody so much as blinks an eye whenever they see the slogans. And they’re pretty hard to miss – the slogans are pasted all around the city. Most things are dead these days, he concludes. Curiosity is dead. Creativity is dead. True intelligence is dead. So it’s hardly surprising when the emotions that make humans, well, humans, are dead. Empathy, for instance, is certainly dead. But then there’s just no room for it anymore, and maybe that’s the bigger problem.

 

A prickling feeling on the back of his neck fishes him out of his thoughts, and Gerard whips his head around to find a few stares on him. It’s the blue suit, that just screams to the world his status as a Party member, that’s drawn their attention. Some of the stares are that of respect, some are of camaraderie, but what stands out the most to Gerard are the envious stares. He could almost scoff at that. There is nothing to envy about, being a Party member. He’d sooner live in the squalor proles are subject to for just a taste of freedom, than be scrutinised for his every breath and movement.

 

Because the moment you become conscious of the fact that you’re lesser than a bug is when your days become numbered.

 

*

 

He spends the whole morning holed up in his cubicle, tracing lines and drafting the new one-panel. It isn’t that surprising, to be honest, because it’s what he does every day. He takes great care to not deviate from the instructions he was given earlier in the morning. The instructions were written in a heavily-abbreviated sort of Newspeak, and even after all these years it still seems more like a code that needs decrypting before Gerard can understand the message’s meaning.

 

Another thing that Gerard does every day is follow the throng of people headed for the elevators to get to the cafeteria when bell for lunch sounds. It feels very much like they’re sheep being herded into the lunch hall. And as usual, after he picks up his lunch tray, receives a gloopy mess handed to him on a plate as well as a mug of Victory coffee, and heads over to the benches, he sits alone, several seats away from the one other stranger that occupies his table. He counts to twenty in his head, and when none of the people from his department sit down beside him trying to talk about the horribly positive Party-issued news, he lets out his breath slowly and starts eating in as much peace as achievable in the crowded and noisy hall.

 

The blob of food on his plate is, as expected, a bit too much on the side of overcooked. Tastelessness is only a bonus, but Gerard’s taste-buds are already used to it. Well, almost. In a vain attempt to wash down the horrible taste of the food, Gerard takes a big gulp of coffee, only to regret his decision completely. He almost chokes on the stale and sour taste; he’d forgotten to dump in as much saccharine as they’ve given him to drown out the horrid taste. Gerard recalls a time in his life when things weren’t always so abysmal, when the coffee tasted less like watery bitterness and had real sugar to accompany it with, and chocolate wasn’t only accessible in black markets. Then, he thinks, nihilistic and amused, ‘abysmal’ won’t even be a concept in a few years’ time. It’s all the doing of Newspeak and its ever-receding vocabulary. The ideal Oceanian citizen would write, speak and read fluent Newspeak, without any apparent hints of Oldspeak in their every speech and thought. None of the present generations are able to do this yet, nor required to, but it is largely encouraged. Secretly, Gerard finds a sort of beauty in old-fashioned, long words that are about to become – or has already become – obsolete in this world. To him, they’re a lot more cultured and sophisticated-sounding. But he keeps this thought to himself – never, under any circumstances, must he let anyone else know of it – because while he is by no means the perfect Party member, being called out on digressing from the rest is the last thing he needs.

 

> From _The Principles of Newspeak_ , Appendix of _1984_ :

>   
> _Newspeak was the official language of Oceania and had been devised to meet the ideological needs of Ingsoc, or English Socialism.  
> _ _It was expected that Newspeak would have finally superseded Oldspeak (or Standard English, as we should call it) by about the year 2050.  
> _ _The purpose of Newspeak was not only to provide a medium of expression for the world-view and mental habits proper to the devotees of Ingsoc, but to make all other modes of thought impossible.  
> _ _Newspeak was designed not to extend but to_ diminish _the range of thought, and this purpose was indirectly assisted by cutting the choice of words down to a minimum._  
> 

 

*

 

Evenings of work days are meant for partaking in any sort of social activity as long as it is held in a Community Centre. It is never advisable to spend long periods of time in solitude – that is a surefire way to arouse suspicion. But most days Gerard’s just too tired to make much of an effort, and tonight is not an exception. When Johnny (whose last name he’d never managed to remember) who sits in the cubicle across from his, asks him if he’s coming along to the Centre for a few drinks and a game of snooker, Gerard declines as politely as he can, bringing up his exhaustion as the reason.

 

“Well that’s a shame. Have a good night’s rest, I’ll see you tomorrow!” Johnny says enthusiastically, as if they’re old pals or something, and Gerard returns a small smile. He barely speaks to the guy, but it doesn’t hurt to hold up appearances.

 

Truth be told, exhaustion is only part of the reason Gerard avoids Community Centres. Evenings are also the only time Gerard may be free to spend some time by himself, just to escape from the world around him a bit, but that is not what he looks forward to doing tonight, no. When he commutes back out from the city centre by public transport again, he gets off the subway a few stations too late, coming up the stairs into the open air to find himself in the prole (short for proletarian) neighbourhood.

 

He’s still in his work clothes, briefcase in hand and the blue suit recognisable miles away, making him stick out like a sore thumb in the proletarian streets. He doesn’t really care though; in fact, he can hardly contain his excitement at the prospect of seeing him – seeing _Frank_ – the second time this week again. Frank is, to put it bluntly, a prostitute. It’s not the prostitute part of that statement that’s surprising – perhaps the most successful business that has managed to thrive out here in the proletarian districts is prostitution, most of the men, especially those that are Party members, all too eager to put their bodily sexual frustration at ease. (It is never a psychological issue – the Party’s made sure of that, extinguishing the ability to love from a very young age.) And the proletarian women know how to charge enough to sustain themselves on this bordering-on-illegal business. What is surprising is that Frank is, well, a _male_ prostitute, and that he has managed to get by this way for years. It is all too well-known that the Party advocates same-sex, monogamous relationships – for the sole purpose of procreation, of course. They even go so far to encourage artificial semination, or _artsem_ , in Newspeak, so that there is as little sexual contact as possible. The point is to have the current Party members that are in their adulthood reproduce, so as to ensure that there is always a new generation for the Party to bring up, all obedient, unquestioning and eager to do anything for the Party. They enrol in the state-controlled youth group – the Little Spies, they’re called, and it’s exactly what it says on the tin. They’re horrid and highly dangerous – Gerard’s seen for himself, the lot of them savage and ready to denounce their own _parents_ at the littlest mistake. It’s a relief Gerard’s never managed to have children of his own. He nearly shudders at the thought of how much worse his life can be otherwise – he’d have to watch his every step thrice as carefully to avoid arrest.

 

So it is truly beyond shocking when Gerard stumbles upon Frank one day, on his occasional escapades to the proletarian brothels. He had been looking for the usual – a quick fuck to get the tension out of his system, and hurry back to his apartment as soon as he can afterwards, without having to even remember the prostitute’s name properly. But then he’d seen the boy in the corner, androgynous-looking and more beautiful than any of the women Gerard had ever seen in his _life_ , and he just couldn’t resist. He’d gone into it knowing it could only end in death, but he still went for it anyway. And now he’s in it too deep. He needs Frank – he needs to see him, almost as much as he needs to breathe air.

 

Somewhere down the road, Gerard realised he’s in love. Against all odds, Frank had confessed, in quiet murmurs, that he feels the same when Gerard had finally felt courageous enough to admit it out loud. And Gerard knows, right then, that he is a dead man. But he still gets out of his way to travel to Frank’s half-dilapidated neighbourhood as much as he can. Gerard remembers reading a book he’d found in his father’s study, when he had only barely just learned enough words to read the really simple children novels, and frowning because he didn’t understand at all the romance written across the pages. And now Gerard understands. It’s the best feeling in the world – to love and to be loved, and he can understand why the Party would have wanted to outlaw it from the start. Love can make people do things they wouldn’t have dared to otherwise – stupid and dangerous things, like risking certain death to just see, and know for sure, that the person you love is alive and breathing.

 

Gerard almost gives it all away, a smile starting to creep its way across his face, and he manages to suppress it until he’d found the entrance to Frank’s building. He slinks inside quietly, the stairs creaking under his feet as he makes his way to the top floor – that’s where Frank’s flat is at, and it gets plenty drafty during winter. Gerard remembers giving Frank his old woollen sweater as a Christmas present the first Christmas they’d spent together, and how Frank’s eyes had widened first in surprise, then in grateful wonder. He lets slip his smile now as he knocks on Frank’s door, tapping his feet against the floor as he waits for the younger man to appear.

 

But Frank never answers the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if there are any mistakes, I just finished the last section of this chapter and it's past 1am now. I didn't even know how to end the chapter for a moment, so I'm sorry if the ending is awkward. Ugh, I'm bad really bad at chaptered fics.
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me and my extremely slow updates. And I apologise for the really boring diction here too. I just get into this serious mood when I write about 1984...
> 
> Speaking of, I should totally finish my critical essay on 1984 instead. *facepalm*


	3. Frankie

 

After roughly five minutes of firm knockings scattered between long pauses of silent waiting, Gerard starts to worry. He’s not a very optimistic man, a fact that is only heightened when he lives under the terrifyingly harsh laws of Oceania, so it isn’t hard for him to jump to the worst conclusion: Frank is evicted. If that’s true, there is no way Gerard will ever be able to locate Frank again; the proletarian district is more or less a maze to Gerard – too confusing to navigate, and Gerard wouldn’t want to get caught stuck in a shady neighbourhood.

 

Gerard buries his face in his hands and makes a distressed noise. He can almost sense some kind of breakdown coming on. But then he hears it – a burst of loud coughs, followed by a sneeze or two. “Frankie?” He can’t help but yell, half-frantic, and he hears a feeble mumble behind the door. He’s relieved for a moment, before realising the very frightening possibility that Frank might _die_ inside. It’s known to happen – death rates are high in the prole districts when winter hits Jersey, the old and sick having to tough it out every year without proper medical treatment. For a moment, Gerard just panics. But then he composes himself enough to try the doorknob, and _thank God_ it’s unlocked. He bursts into the flat, and the sight of Frank makes him ache. He’s curled up into a tight ball under the crumpled sheets of his bed, barely visible when he’s covered himself head to toe with the sheets. His cheeks are flushed, and his hair is damp, sticking to his forehead. He looks terribly ill. Gerard should’ve known, he _should’ve known_ Frank would get sick. His apartment is never warm, and it’s winter, of course he’d get sick, what was Gerard thinking? He should’ve bought more clothes – a thicker, warmer quilt, at least, for Frank.

 

“Just come ‘ere, I want a hug,” Frank demands croakily, and Gerard almost laughs in relief, half-hysterical. He crosses the room and kneels on the bed, gathering Frank into a tight hug. “You don’t know how worried I was out there. For a second I thought you could be dying,” he whispers into Frank’s hair. He feels Frank shake his head. “’M fine,” Frank mumbles with a sniffle, but Gerard knows he isn’t. He’s far from fine – his skin is burning up, and he looks exhausted. He’s very clearly fighting to keep his drooping eyelids open.

 

“Hush. Just keep resting, I’ll go make you a cup of hot water.” Gerard presses a kiss against Frank’s cheek, and gets up from the bed. In his hurry, he’d forgotten to take off his coat. He leaves it hanging over the back of the stray chair in what should be the living room area (it’s really just a corner of the one-room flat, to be honest) as he walks over to the kitchenette. Gerard thinks, vaguely, that when he got sick as a child, he’d receive way more than a cup of hot water – it’d be a cup of hot tea instead, for one, and he’d certainly have a small snack to go with it. Also, chicken soup. That was more or less part of the custom, too. But just like proper coffee, proper tea leaves had vanished off the markets for a long time. If a regular Party member can’t get a hold of them, there is no way he can find them in the prole markets. Gerard sighs, and carries the cup of heated water over to the bed.

 

Frank finishes the cup in several gulps, and Gerard pretends he doesn’t notice how thirsty Frank had been (how dehydrated he must have been before Gerard came over; he swears the boy doesn’t know how to take care of himself properly, he thinks fondly) and goes to refill the cup. He checks the thermosat discreetly, just to make sure it’s turned up all the way. Not that it would’ve made much a difference – you can’t expect the proles to have better heating than the Party members, and Gerard’s apartment isn’t very warm already.

 

When he comes back to the bed and places the cup on the bedside table, Frank surprises him with an apology. “I’m sorry I’m sick,” he says, and Gerard is confused. There is no reason he should be apologising; it’s not like he could’ve stopped himself from catching the flu living under these crappy conditions.

 

“Why are you apologising?” But Frank looks genuinely sorry – miserable, even, and Gerard is all the more confused.

 

Frank takes a deep breath, and says, slowly, “I know you came out all the way to see me, but I’m sick and I can’t even give a blowjob without wanting to throw up my last meal thirty seconds in, so I’m sorry I can’t do anything with you –”

 

“Hold on, you tried to work today?” Gerard is still stuck on the first part of Frank’s reply.

 

“Yes. I mean, it wasn’t that bad this morning, the fever, so –”

 

“Frankie, you shouldn’t even be out of bed,” Gerard says with a worried sigh. He knows that Frank most probably meant he was feeling only marginally better this morning when he said ‘it wasn’t that bad’. And then his brain catches up with the rest of Frank’s sentence, and— “Wait a second, are you apologising because you’re ill and we can’t have sex?” Gerard asks, voice laced with amusement and incredulity.

 

Frank nods in response, and Gerard almost laughs. “That’s stupid, Frankie you know I love you right?” At this, Frank nods again, and Gerard continues, “Then why would you assume that sex is the sole reason I visit you? Because if that’s the case then I’m just the same as all your other patrons.” Gerard finishes with a slightly smaller voice, and Frank shakes his head almost vehemently. “No, the rest of them can’t compare. They don’t even come close. I’m sorry if–”

 

“Stop apologising, Frank.” This time, Gerard does laugh. Then he adds, with a quieter voice, “Just be quiet and let me take care of you.”

 

Speaking, Gerard rearranges the blankets so that they form a tight cocoon around Frank. He reaches his arm out, leaning his body as far as he can without getting off the bed, and snags his coat off the chair. He places it on top of all the blankets as an added layer of insulation. He knows it’s not nearly enough, but before Gerard buys Frank a thicker quilt, it’s the most he can do. He combs his fingers through Frank’s hair gently, brushing the stray strands off his forehead, and Frank hums. He’s already teetering on the edge of sleep; the conversation had taken out quite a bit of energy from his body. “Love you,” Frank mumbles drowsily, and Gerard smiles.

 

“Shhh. Just sleep.” Gerard drops a kiss onto Frank’s hair and lies down on his side, watching Frank rest. He’s so glad he decided to come over today; who knows what would’ve happened to Frank. Maybe one of the other prostitutes would’ve came over to enquire after Frank, but he doubts they’d be as willing as he is when it comes to nursing Frank back to health. Frank doesn’t have any family, so there really isn’t anybody else who would. He supposes they’re similar in that aspect: both of them have been orphans since their teenaged years, although Gerard got the luckier end of the deal. He also doesn’t remember how he lost his family, but Frank has said that it was only recently he stopped having vividly detailed nightmares about his mother’s death. Gerard never asked, but he knows Frank’s mother died in the war that’s been going on since the revolutions. But Frank lost his father far earlier; the man had vanished amidst the last wave of revolution, and that was so long ago he barely remembers it. All he recalls is being propped up on a man’s leg and hearing guitar music in front of a fireplace, Frank had told Gerard once.

 

And then Gerard thinks about how readily he tells Frank those three words, “I love you”, all the time. Every time he says it out loud, he is breaking the law, and he knows this, but he’s never felt any compunction about it. He’d never had the nerve, nor wanted to tell Alexandra that he loved her, back when they were still together. Alexandra was the first and only girlfriend Gerard had – if what they had could even be called a relationship. Party members don’t really have relationships – there are no such thing as boyfriend and girlfriend, because they were all equal comrades. All they have are marriages, and Gerard almost got tricked into marrying Alexandra. They were engaged back then, but Alexandra was the complete opposite of Gerard. Where Gerard would stop and silently ponder about the Party’s orders, Alexandra would unquestioningly abide them. She was pretty, but disappointingly empty-headed – the perfect Party member. She was in the Junior Anti-Sex League as well, so if he had married her, it would most likely have led to awful sex. He was glad he’d ended it before that happened – so that all he will ever have to remember her by are horribly dull conversations.

 

Gerard falls asleep with these thoughts still circling in his head. Underlying it all is his worry for Frank’s wellbeing, and he sleeps fitfully that night. He’s up before sunrise the next day. He wakes with his arm slung around Frank’s back, holding him close, and the feeling of Frank’s head resting against his chest tugs at his heartstrings. Morning light creeps into the apartment in scarce slices as the sun slowly climbs the sky, some of the light cascading across Frank’s face. Frank’s illuminated eyelids flutter ever so slightly, and Gerard smiles. He’d give anything to live in this moment forever, the rest of Oceania and the Party be damned.

 

A soft knock on the front door breaks the moment. Gerard gets off the bed gently, careful not to wake Frank, and pads over to the door. A peek through the peephole tells him it’s Jamia, the dark-haired landlord. She’s on good terms with Frank, from what Gerard’s heard. “She’s like a sister I never had,” Frank had said, so Gerard doesn’t hesitate to open the door. They wish each other good morning just out of common courtesy. “Gerard, is it?” Jamia smiles warmly, and Gerard already likes her.

 

“Yes I am. I’m going to assume Frank told you all about me?” Gerard asks with a light laugh, and Jamia laughs along. “How may I help you? I’m afraid I can’t invite you in, Frank’s ill and he’s resting, I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”

 

“That’s fine, I understand. I’m only here to collect the rent anyway, but I suppose I’ll come by later. And oh, I’ll bring soup too. Tell him I said hi when he wakes up?”

 

“Yeah. Thank you.” Gerard smiles, and he watches Jamia go, but then he thinks better of it. “Wait—“

 

Jamia turns around in time to see Gerard rushing into the flat. He comes back to the doorway in a flash with his briefcase. He wrestles with it for a bit, but manages to fish out a wad of cash. “Here’s Frank’s rent,” Gerard says a bit breathlessly as he hands over the cash. Jamia takes it, but she looks surprised. Then she smiles. “I’m glad Frank’s found someone like you to look after him,” she says, and Gerard blushes slightly. “Don’t let him down, Gerard.” And with that, she turns around and disappears down the corridor.

 

Proles, Gerard realises, despite being depicted as mere animals in the eyes of the Party members, are actually the only class that still resembles humans.

 

*

 

Gerard spends the afternoon at the Community Centre, in an attempt to throw them off the scent, to cover up the fact that he’s been missing too many ~~voluntary~~ unofficially mandatory meetings. He’d thought it couldn’t be more miserable an experience than eating in the Ministry of Truth cafeteria, but he was wrong.

 

Having to sit there and watch these god-awful state propaganda films isn’t what makes it torturous, although they do have zero entertainment value. It’s having to cheer along with the others at every single little victory of the Party members on the silver screen that’s mind-numbingly boring and superfluous and _downright stupid_ , but Gerard can’t not join in lest he’s called out for being unorthodox, or whatever. (They’d also denounce him if they knew he liked to use such long words, so he’s glad he’s perfected a poker face after all these years…)

 

The only comforting thought he can hold onto to stay half-attentive is the fact that he’d spent the night with Frank. The even more relieving thought is that nobody’s stopped him when he’d travelled back to his neighbourhood. He had spent most of the day at work half in fear, expecting a Thought Police or some nosy Party member to come up to him, but no one did. By lunchtime he’d started to think about Frank instead, about how he’d protested and protested until his exhaustion took over when Gerard revealed that he’d paid his rent for him. He’d thought about how Frank had wanted to pull Gerard back to bed when the latter had to leave for work, and only let go when Gerard left promises of coming back within the next five days. The mere thought of Frank is enough to make Gerard almost spontaneously break out in a smile; he has to try with all his willpower to keep his facial expression in check.

 

Suddenly, someone turns on the lights of the room. The film’s over, and a few people are grumbling – like they can’t get enough of that rubbish, Christ. “Alright comrades.” Someone’s gotten onto the small stage at the front and he’s waving a several sheets around. “That’s it for today. But before you go, I got the sign-up sheets here for Hate Week preparation, so come over here and jot down your name and the task you would like to help out in.”

 

Gerard has to hold in a groan. He _hates_ Hate Week with a passion (no pun intended), he usually has to work increasingly overtime in the months running up to it, and then during the seven days he’s required to attend all the parades and rallies. It’s just a thoroughly exhausting process. At least, he can just fill in that he’s already working at the Ministry of Truth – Illustration Department, so maybe they will let him off easy. And it does work – the man who’s manning the sign-up sheets smiles at him, pats him on the shoulder and wishes him luck in designing the posters, and Gerard smiles back, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. If the man notices it, he doesn’t say anything about it, and Gerard lets out a slow breath of relief when he’s out the door.

 

 

>   
> **_Hate Week_ ** _– an annual set of seven days, where the entirety of Oceania engages in rallies, parties, etc by way of expressing and promoting animosity towards enemies of the Party._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, what is happening, I've made 2 updates in a row? Woop woop. But it's not a really good chapter isn't it? I'm sorry if the later section bored you to tears.


	4. Santa Ain't Coming To This Town (But We'll Manage)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite what’s about to happen in this chapter there will be no porn. I repeat, no porn – because I can’t write sex scenes worth shit, it’s a statically proven fact, so I’d rather leave you guys hanging then leave you cringing.

_  
“And do you know what I’m going to do next? I’m going to get hold of a real woman’s frock from somewhere and wear it instead of these bloody trousers. I’ll wear silk stockings and high-heeled shoes! In this room I’m going to be a woman, not a Party comrade.”_

_– Julia, Part II: Chapter IV,_ 1984

 

 

Christmas is coming. Gerard wouldn’t have known this if he hadn’t gone for a stroll in the prole neighbourhood to visit Frank. It’s the coloured neon lights strung high in the fronts of stores and buildings, and the little Christmas trees draped in tinsel that inform him of the seasonal festival. Back in his own neighbourhood, everything is the same – the only added feature is the snow that keeps piling up. The Party doesn’t promote any kind of festival or holiday, unless it’s related to the Party itself.

 

Had Gerard not met Frank, he probably would’ve spent the rest of his winters just hating the weather too.

 

And it’s just the same as any other year. Gerard gives Frank his present – a quilt, as Gerard had promised himself (Frank had only just recovered from his flu and it wouldn't do to have him go through that again), and a curious invention called the ‘snow globe’, which he had found in the very same antique shop he bought his journal. When Frank so much as mentions reciprocating by giving Gerard a present of his, Gerard tries to make Frank take it back, all “you shouldn’t spend any money on me”. Except, of course, Gerard’s protests are never a match for Frank’s insistence.

 

“It wasn’t particularly costly, if that’s what you’re worried about. Just, turn that way, face the wall, and I’ll set it up. It’s meant to be a surprise.” Speaking, Frank holds Gerard by the shoulders and steers him over to the entrance of the flat. “Don’t look now. I’ll just be a minute.”

 

“Okay…” The doubt shows in his voice, but Gerard stays put.

 

After some shuffling around and a few soft thumps, Frank calls, “You can turn around now.” Gerard complies, but what greets his sight is – not something he would have anticipated in a million years.

 

Frank has somehow donned a simple red evening gown, fitted and elegant. A cut in the dress all the way up to the thighs breaks the conservative appearance. Through the cut, Gerard can see hints of silk stockings and a pair of glossy black high-heels. Frank accessorises with a pair of white gloves that rolls up to his elbows, as well as a small pendant that hangs from his neck and rests on his chest. His raised, no longer flat chest. Frank’s worn something underneath to give the illusion of a pair of breasts. But what really catches Gerard’s attention is Frank’s face. His already pale face is now coated with a thin layer of powder – both cheeks are slightly rouged, and his lips are a complimenting deep red. His eyes are lined with black, the lids covered in a slight shade of aubergine, and the lashes accentuated. The curled, dark hair completes the look – Frank’s done something to his hair so that they’re smooth and shiny. The luscious curls fall onto his shoulders, and the tips trail down towards his chest.

 

Frank looks ravishing – kind of like he stepped straight out of the decadent twenties, as Gerard’s learnt from textbooks. Frank is beautiful, and he looks completely out of place in his small, drab flat.

 

“Ta da!” Frank says with a nervous chuckle as Gerard continues to stare, dumbfounded. He’s still mostly in shock, and his expression is, to Frank, unfathomable. Frank’s smile starts to drop; he’s afraid that Gerard doesn’t like his surprise at all. “Gerard?” He asks, voice timid, and Gerard breaks free of his trance. He steps forward slowly, careful, as if Frank’s an illusion he might break. “Frank… I…” He reaches out a hand, but stops it mid-raise, just letting it hang in the air. He tries speaking again, tone still as hushed and reverent, “I just… Frank – Frank, you are absolutely stunning.”

 

Frank lowers his eyes to the ground, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah?” He says with a shy grin, and Gerard nods.

 

“You are.” Gerard takes a few more steps to close the gap, and he catches a whiff of something akin to the scent of roses, but with added artificiality. Nevertheless, it’s starting to go to his head. Abruptly, he snakes an arm around Frank’s now defined waist to pull him close, and where Frank’s soft warm back should be, Gerard’s hands meets something hard and rigid. “That’s the corset,” Frank comments quietly, and Gerard looks thoroughly puzzled. “If you want I can show you…” Frank adds, voice alluring.

 

“Is that an attempt at getting me in bed?” Gerard teases, and Frank smirks as he answers, bold and shameless, “Yup. Is it working?”

 

Gerard just grins. He indulges Frank and, tucking a loose lock of hair behind Frank’s ear, leans in to taste the red on Frank’s lips. It’s waxy, plastic and just a tad sweet, but the knowledge of it, that Frank is wearing it, is utterly intoxicating. “Just gorgeous,” Gerard breathes against Frank’s lips, and he can hear it when Frank’s breath catches.

 

He kisses Frank again, all his inhibitions flying out of the window, and for a long moment all he knows are lips, teeth and tongues. Gerard thinks he hears a moan – whether it is his or Frank’s, he isn’t sure. When he comes up for air, Frank is panting, and before he knows it, Gerard is walking them towards the bed. Frank stumbles in his heels, still quite unaccustomed to the added height; he tumbles back onto the mattress once it meets the back of his knees. He giggles as he falls, giddy and a bit dazed. Gerard smiles as he crawls onto the bed, hovering with his arms bracketing both sides of Frank’s body. He commits the sight before him to his memory – Frank’s flushed, red cheeks, his dark, mussed-up tresses, his slightly smeared lipstick, his glazed eyes, and his gown, a dash of red against the faded sheets – and dives down for another kiss.

 

*

 

“Did you know women in the Party don’t wear dresses, ever?” Gerard says. They’re lying in the bed, naked and still tangled together. Gerard can’t tell where his calves end and where Frank’s thighs start, and the thought alone gives him a thrill. “Most of them probably haven’t even seen a dress in their entire lifetime.”

 

Frank makes a noise of enquiry. “Wow. What do they wear then? Just pants?”

 

“Yeah. Just pants,” Gerard agrees. “It’s a rule of the Party, I guess. They want everybody to feel equal, so we all wear the same set of uniforms. There are only two kinds of clothes: suits for working in the office, and unisex overalls for those who are involved in physical work. You’ve seen the ugly suit, obviously.” Gerard gestures at his clothes, which are strewn across the floor, and makes a face.

 

“It must be so boring. Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s not the case with all women, but girls are supposed to want to look pretty, right? How can they stand wearing shapeless suits for the rest of their lives?” Frank says, shaking his head in disbelief.

 

“I know. I guess it helps with the whole ‘no sex’ thing. The first step you want to do when you’re trying to kill the sex instinct is to get rid of the reason for arousal, right? So we don’t have pretty women.” Gerard shrugs. “I guess that’s why I reacted the way I did when I saw you in that dress. And you are very pretty,” Gerard adds with a cheeky smile. Frank beams. “But anyway, that’s just the sex. I have no idea how they’ve managed to get rid of the primitive emotions, you know, like love, empathy, and stuff, but they’ve done it. Probably it’s to do with the top-notch propaganda they’ve got these days…” He trails off, and the silence drags on for a quite a bit as both men are lost in their thoughts.

 

“I’m really glad you’re not affected by any of it,” Frank admits, finally breaking the silence. “I’d fall in love with your pretty face only to find out you’re just like the rest of those robots.”

 

Gerard laughs, amused but humourless. “You shouldn’t be glad. You know they also arrest people for being able to love? It’s thoughtcrime, in itself.” Gerard says with a shake of his head, his voice sad. “I am doomed, now. They’re bound to find out someday, and then they’ll take me away. Even without knowing that I love you, they can still shoot me for committing sexcrime. Because it’s pretty obvious I’m not sleeping with you to ‘reproduce for the Party’,” Gerard says with airquotes, his voice dripping with disgust and sarcasm. “They’ll arrest me, and you wouldn’t see me ever again. Really, you shouldn’t have fallen in love with me.” Gerard’s voice drops into a melancholic whisper. He reaches out a finger to trace Frank’s jawline, suddenly desperate. Like they’re going to burst into the room any moment, and he’s trying to memorise every dip and bump on Frank’s body before that happens.

 

Frank frowns and grabs Gerard’s hand. “Shut up. It hasn’t happened yet; don’t be so pessimistic. Just be careful, as you always have been. Nothing’s gone wrong so far, right? So stop worrying.” Speaking, he flips Gerard onto his back and kisses him deep and slow, trying to distract Gerard. Trying to distract both their minds from the subject.

 

Outside, the snow continues to fall, and Gerard finds himself wondering how many other Party members there are out there that are just like him, all trying to make the best of their days before the Thought Police figures them out. It doesn’t matter though; they’ll catch them all, one by one, and then they’ll put them all into the Ministry of Love, where they all wait for their deaths. And nobody will remember Gerard ever existed, maybe except for Frank. He’ll be vaporised, just like the countless others that have disappeared without a trace in the past. He’ll be an _unperson_ , just like his parents. Just like Mikey.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh, my chapters just keep getting shorter. Whatever, I don’t want to cram anymore into this chapter. This chapter was originally nearly 3000 words, but then I read it over once and it was unspeakably boring, so I deleted it all and rewrote the chapter. I guess I had a bit of a block yesterday. I hope it doesn’t happen again.


	5. A Form Of Stupidity That Penetrates Our Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from one of my favourite quotes about hate, by none other than Frank Iero :) It goes as thus:  
> “No one is born with hate in their heart. Hate is something that has been taught, it is not an innate survival skill that we need. It is a form of stupidity that penetrates our minds and will eventually destroy us.”  
> Probably you would’ve realised by now that I’m a big fan of quotes. :P Anyway, on to the story.

It’s twenty-one hours, and Gerard’s only just tramped into his apartment. He’s just returned from the communal canteen down the road, dinner just as disgusting as the lunch served at the Ministry of Truth canteen for Outer Party members, and the exhaustion clinging to his bones is enough to deter him from setting off to queue up for the showers on his floor.

 

They had just passed New Years – of course there were going to be celebrations, the umpteenth anniversary of ‘the Establishment of Oceania’ and progress reports on the umpteenth Ten Year Plan, among other things. Gerard bets if he turns up the brightness and volume of his flat’s telescreen now, it’ll be spewing the similar rubbish. He isn’t normally perturbed by the propaganda – years of living under the constant blast of it has got him numbed alright – but the broadcasts are twice as vicious and annoying when it’s New Years celebrations. They make Gerard want to chop his ears off, just to rid those poor organs of the misfortune of having to endure the noise.

 

He almost sighs as he settles himself at the coffee table. It’s another new year, and it’s only when they announced the year did Gerard realise it’s already 2061. He’s never seen the need to keep count anyway – each day’s just the same as the last, and each year the same as the previous: wake up, go in to work to keep publishing pro-Party propaganda, then leave work only to suffer through the never-ending stream of these propaganda; and, recently, pay surreptitious visits to Frank’s during any downtime. Rinse, lather, repeat. Gerard does a quick count of the years in his head, and it dawns on him that he’s 36 now, or 37, and by the end of this year he’ll have spent nearly twenty years in the same pattern of living, mindlessly passing his days with no way of getting out of the rut, ever. The thought fills his mind with terror, and he almost shudders.

 

Wordlessly, he picks up his trusty journal and flips open to a blank page. As he picks up his pen, his thoughts trail back to Mikey and the rest of his family. Lately, he’s plagued with increasingly frequent visits of the dreams, dreams that always starred at least one of his family members. It’s like, for an unknown reason, the floodgates have opened, and those long-forgotten ghosts of his past are suddenly rushing back to him, all at once. Gerard loses himself in reminiscence of last night’s dream. Words, of their own accord, start to pour out of the pen held in his hands, detailing the visions he’d seen in his dreams. His father’s shadow towering over him protectively as he rides his bike the first time. His father, giving him piggyback rides when his legs got too tired to support his own weight. The feeling of his mother’s embrace when he wakes up from a nightmare, and the sugary taste of cookies and hot milk on his tongue when his mother tries to cheer him up. And his brother – little Mikey, eight years of age the last time Gerard’s seen him, and they used to fight each other for the last serving of dessert at the dinner table. But they had quickly forgiven each other, sharing the small chocolate bar in front of the fire (chocolate must have already become a rare commodity then), because they were best friends.

 

 _They were best friends._ This realisation triggers something in Gerard, and he has to pinch his nose before he lets loose a sob, or a sound that’s equally suspicious and bound to attract the attention of the telescreen. He only lets go when his shoulders stop shaking, and he takes several slow, deep breaths to calm down.

 

When he turns his attention back to his journal, he sees a mess of scrawls, although luckily none of his tears have splashed onto the page. Nevertheless, he crosses out the whole passage. He pauses for a second, before adding the two most prominent thoughts at the front of his mind:

_I miss Mikey. And I wish… I wish I can see him again, if he’s still alive somewhere out there._

 

*

 

Less than two weeks into the new year, Hate Week preparations are already going in full swing. As predicted, Gerard’s handed one assignment after the other, all related to the occasion. Right now he’s applying the colours onto a poster that’s going to be hanging in the Times Square for the duration of the week. It features three infamous faces, all of them heavily advertised as enemies of the Party in the last few days; they’ve apparently been working as espionage for Eastasia, the country they’re currently at war with.  ( _The country they have_ always _been at war with_ , a little voice at the back of his mind reminds him, but he knows that’s not true. It’s only the Party’s Records Department at work, rewriting historical facts every minute, every hour of every day. Gerard remembers that ten years ago they were allies with Eastasia and enemies of Eurasia, but he has nothing to prove this.) Of course, the faces on the poster might just be scapegoats for thought-criminals still on the run, but Gerard knows better than to question it. Instead, he’s been silently caricaturising the faces of these ‘hated enemies’, transforming them into pathetic, rat-faced creatures – which is the standard procedure, really. For a moment, Gerard considers the wild notion of adding bright red crosses over their faces, but that would suggest artistic creativity and an actual appreciation for the aesthetics… He abandons the idea after a long pause. Better safe than sorry, and he’d very much like to keep himself under the radar when Hate Week is just around the corner, thank you.

 

He turns in his draft when he’s done, and the Head of Department nods in approval. Not drawing those crosses was a wise decision. Gerard wanders back to his cubicle, sitting down with a plop, but the respite is short-lived. There’s already another slip of paper on his desk, signalling more work. Thankfully, the lunch bell sounds just as Gerard’s reaching for his pen. Or, not quite thankfully, seeing as Gerard’s going to have to jostle his way to the dimly-lit, crowded room and endure an hour of what barely passes as edible food, but that’s not the worst part, oh no. Gerard seems to have the worst luck today, because Johnny from the same department has spotted him and decides to sit at the same bench – Johnny, who is now relaying the rumours he’s heard about the Hate Week processions, complete with excited hand gestures.

 

“I heard they actually caught a couple of the Eastasian troops on the Pacific Front! They’re going to parade them during the Week, I’ll bet.”

 

Gerard grunts as he takes a bite of his undercooked fish, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He doesn’t really give a shit about the Week, but he’ll entertain Johnny for what it’s worth. At least it’ll take his mind off of the unappetising taste of his lunch.

 

“I wonder what they’ll have them wear. Probably they’ll be marched down the street still in those rags of their uniforms; they’ll be damn recognisable miles off. Wouldn’t even dream of running away, if I were them.” Johnny chuckles, and Gerard almost wants to deck him on his head just to shut him up, but he makes a noise of assent instead. For once, he actually agrees with Johnny. The one reason behind the effectiveness of the Party’s control is its ability to shape the mind-sets of their citizens into conformity, so that they all feel like they belong. And whatever lies outside of what’s considered ‘normal’, they either fear it or denounce it with all their might. It’s a culture of fear and hate amplified and all kindly feelings suppressed. It’s xenophobia, Gerard’s noted to himself on more than one occasion, but they don’t teach that word in school nowadays, of course, nor do they use it. But the fact remains: Xenophobia is somehow ingrained into every fibre of every Party member. They’re just instinctively sensitive to foreign objects – anything from wearing strange shoes to a foreign accent. Gerard is exempt, but he plays by the rules all the same, just to avoid death.

 

But he knows, death is already the lesser punishment. Quite ironically, to be put on public trial and forced to admit to whatever sins they ascribe you is the easiest way out. Most people, especially native Oceanian citizens, fall victim to the unspeakable horrors that go on in the Ministry of Love (paradoxically named, just like most things in Oceania). The arrested citizens are subject to inhumane tortures of varying degrees of cruelty, and they’ll force them to confess to crimes they have (or haven’t) committed. But the worst punishment there is in the whole of Oceania is Room 101. They incorporate your worst fear into the torture, breaking your mind and spirit in the process, until all that remains is another shell obedient to the Party. They’re just rumours, of course, and Gerard seriously doubts whether they can tell when you’re devoid of all your secrets – as far as he knows, they haven’t invented methods to look into human minds yet. But anything can happen in this nation, and it isn’t above the Party to go to all kinds of extremes, just to keep their people in line…

 

The tortures are quite possibly happening right now as Gerard listens to the mindless Party-authorised news coming out of Johnny’s mouth. In the Ministry of Love, just a few streets away from the building he’s now situated in. The thought hasn’t occurred to Gerard before, but once he acknowledges it, it’s horrifying enough to turn his blood ice-cold. It must have shown on his face, but luckily Johnny was just droning on about the Resistance and how their undercover spies have wrecked one of the bigger Big Brother posters hanging on 8th Street, and he mistakes Gerard’s expression as a responding look of horror.

 

“I know, right? But they’ve probably already caught them. No one’s ever evaded the Party’s security, and if they have, they won’t be on the run for long. There’s really no need to be so alarmed,” Johnny finishes his drivel with a careless chuckle. Oh, if only he knew. Gerard feels his stomach churn, forewarning of nausea, but he can’t tell whether it’s a result of the terror engulfing his mind, or just a side-effect of the half-cooked food he’s consumed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another short chapter; and a slightly filler one at that. But this is the calm before the storm, so savour it while you can!
> 
> Oh and another thing: I just realised ‘Female Robbery’ by The Neighbourhood goes almost perfectly with the mood of this fic (or 1984 the novel, in general). Just ignore the song title and listen to the lyrics.
> 
> ETA: I totally changed the current year in this 'verse, because i realised 2808 would be too far into the future, and by then, if 1984 does happen, there would literally be no room for resistance, so yeah.


	6. An Unpleasant (But Not Unforeseen) Ending For The Cherophobic

_“They remembered a million useless things, a quarrel with a workmate, a hunt for a lost bicycle pump, the expression on a long-dead sister’s face, the swirls of dust on a windy morning seventy years ago: but all the relevant facts were outside the range of their vision. They were like the ant, which can see small objects but not large ones.”_

_– Part I, Chapter VIII,_ 1984

 

 

There are only three weeks until Hate Week. Even if Gerard isn’t silently counting down the days with dread, it’s pretty hard to miss the bombastic announcements on every telescreen he comes across. Curiously, everybody’s suddenly extra keen on counting the dates, yet at any other time of the year nobody would be able to tell you the exact date and month.

 

With Hate Week imminent on the horizons, Gerard’s shifts are getting increasingly overtime. Every day he goes to bed with his entire body and mind submerged in fatigue, and the rest that sleep is supposed to provide evades him. When he wakes up he’s just as tired as the day before. It is no surprise that he falls asleep on his train ride out of the city after work. He has weird drifts of dreams, glimpses of the Hate Week banners he’s seen whizzing by outside morphing into the indistinct blurs of the faces of the enemies on the posters; then the face of Big Brother surfaces, rising above the murky waters of his mind, only to be pulled back down to give way to the faces of those he loves: his mom, his dad, Mikey… and finally, Frank. He jerks awake when the train pulls to a stop. He’s in the prole neighbourhood – Frank’s neighbourhood – and he gets off, hurried and stumbling. In his half-asleep, half-awake haze, he doesn’t notice the small woman that is clad in grey overalls walk right behind him, following the echoes of his footsteps.

 

*

 

“Oh, Gee, you look like hell.” That was the first thing Frank had said as soon as Gerard stepped inside the apartment. “Yeah, Hate Week’s coming up, y’know?” It’s as nonchalant an answer as Gerard can make, but of course the tad bit of desperation that crept into his voice didn’t escape Frank’s notice. Anyway, the circles under his eyes are already a dead giveaway, and that’s how they end up spending the afternoon cuddling on Frank’s bed, doing nothing.

 

It’s the most relief Gerard has had within the last three months.

 

It’s only when he’s climbed into bed does he notice the teddy bear propped up on Frank’s bedside table. It wasn’t there the last time he’d been around. “Who’s this little guy?” He asks as he grabs the bear off of the table.

 

“Oh! Just something Jamia made for me. It’s a late Christmas gift, I guess. She’d only just gathered enough scraps from, y’know, around. I love it all the same; teddies have vanished from stores for decades.”

 

Gerard nods. The only time he’s come across a stuffed toy was when he was a toddler, and even then his parents couldn’t afford it. It had already started to become obsolete; they were a decade into the Party’s rule. He remembers spending a lot of time with his nose pressed against the display of that shop, just staring at the bear, until one day it disappeared – either someone had bought it, or it was destroyed, for being a ‘bourgeois’ item. And now, they only hold value in the eyes of the proletarian masses. To the current generations of Party members, born and raised on state propaganda, stuffed toys are considered unnecessary.

 

Gerard cradles Frank’s bear in his palms as he studies its appearance. The stretch of fabric sewn together to act as its skin has the strangest pattern – there are alternating stripes of red and white, and to one side, a little rectangular patch of blue dotted with rows of little white, five-pointed stars. “That’s a nice pattern. Very peculiar,” Gerard remarks absently, and he hears Frank make a vague noise in agreement. “You know, I never knew why they’re called ‘teddy bears’,” he adds, wondering out loud.

 

“Oh man, you’ve never heard of the story behind the bears? You know, ‘Teddy’s Bear’?” Frank asks, and his eyes widen in shock when Gerard shakes his head. Frank launches, with absolute delight, into the tale of President Theodore ‘Teddy’ Roosevelt, one of the many presidents of America, and the bear he hunted. He re-enacts it all with the bear, and Gerard listens with interest, laughing when Frank imitates various characters with funny voices. He doesn’t question how Frank knows. Proles tend to remember and pass down through generations trivial things like that.

 

Yet, neither Gerard nor Frank knows the details of this America country – granted, Frank is a prole and as a rule doesn’t have access to compulsory education, but even Gerard doesn’t know much about America. All he knows is that it was one of the countries that had existed before the revolutions, and afterwards it was swallowed up by the land mass that is now called Oceania. That, and the people living in America also spoke English (or Oldspeak, as the Party likes to call it). But it mustn’t have been an important country if the textbooks couldn’t even be bothered to describe it in more than three sentences, so Gerard brushes it aside.

 

Gerard takes another look at the bear, and he gets an idea, an urge to draw again, but he doesn’t have his journal with him. He ends up digging out a Party-issued notepad, courtesy of the Minitrue1 offices, from his briefcase. He doodles the scene just as Frank’s described earlier: President Theodore with his weird one-eyed glasses called a ‘monocle’, his impressive moustache and the weird hat, and the bear chained to a tree. Except, Gerard’s never seen a living, breathing bear for himself (most Oceanian citizens live their entire lives without seeing an animal, save for vermins such as stray cats, sewer rats and all kinds of insects found in the attic), so the bear he draws is a hybrid of the teddy bear, and a picture he’s seen of a grizzly bear, in his elementary textbook. The result is a harmless-looking bear, cutesy and out of place next to the president’s hunting rifle, and Frank laughs at it as Gerard makes a face.

 

“Seriously though, that’s a pretty good drawing. I’m not an expert when it comes to art – far from it, in fact,” Frank sticks his tongue out, “But it’s got style. It’s like, a cartoon, but not exactly? And you’ve definitely got skills.”

 

“Well, they didn’t hire me to work in the Illustration Department for nothing, if I do say so myself.”

 

“Such a narcissist.” Frank rolls his eyes just as Gerard retorts with a “you love me anyway”.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank dismisses with another eye-roll. “But I was thinking, would you mind drawing, well, me? Like, um, a portrait, or something…” Frank trails off with a blush, embarrassed. “I mean, you don’t have to do it. It’s just a random idea, but – yeah, you know what? Never mind.”

 

“No actually I’d love to. I actually draw a lot when I’m alone in my flat too – I got a whole book of doodles, I could bring it over after the Week.” Gerard’s getting increasingly excited just talking about it – he’s never shared his personal art with anyone before, it’s just too dangerous to do so – but he stops himself, aware that he might sound just _too_ self-absorbed. “Yeah, anyway, about your portrait, I’ll do what I can. Just, be warned, okay? ‘Cause I’ve never really drawn in a realistic style before.”

 

“Hang on, if you’re in the Illustration Department – you designed those banners hanging out on the streets, didn’t you?”

 

“Well, some of them. I’m only one person in the whole department,” Gerard says, trying to downplay it, but Frank isn’t convinced.

 

“Dude, are you kidding? Those posters are amazingly realistic. Boring and predictable as hell, sure –”

 

“Hey!”

 

“— but don’t try to tell me you can’t draw, because I’ve seen you. Just, bring whatever you need next time you come over and I’ll pose for you, okay? I’ll even take my clothes off if you want,” Frank adds, wagging his eyebrows, and Gerard laughs. “No but seriously, why are being so modest all of a sudden? I’d love to have your drawing hang on my wall. It’ll totally be a token of love.” Frank says this earnestly, with imploring eyes – batting his eyelashes, even. It’s a face nobody can say no to, much less someone who’s in love with that bastard – someone like Gerard.

 

“Fine, fine, I’ll do it.” (Frank crows triumphantly.) “But after Hate Week, yeah? I’m pretty much up to my neck in work at the moment.” Gerard sighs with as much self-pity as he can muster, and Frank makes a sympathetic noise. “I’d rather stay home during the Week, too, if that makes you feel better,” Frank offers, and Gerard makes an embarrassing noise that sounds suspiciously like a wail, but he’s past the point of caring.

 

Frank also offers to give Gerard a massage before he goes, and he makes Gerard promise to stay alive and sane until the Week is over. “Nah, don’t worry. It’s only a few more weeks, I’ll survive,” Gerard assures.

 

“I’ll hold you to it,” Frank says with a smile.

 

The kiss they share just before Gerard leaves is prolonged, as if they’re trying to compensate for the coming weeks they have to live without the presence of each other. It’s a kiss that leaves them both breathless, but the smile Frank gives him as Gerard’s leaving is completely blinding. He steals another kiss and hurries out the door, and it takes him three tries before he can wipe his own smile off his face.

 

*

 

Despite promising himself to hurry home before the clocks strike twenty hours, Gerard can’t help but enter a bar when he comes across one. It’s inconspicuous enough on the outside, and he really can do with half a pint of beer to warm himself up. Not that spending time with Frank hadn’t already taken away some of the exhaustion and stress on his mind, but a little alcohol never hurts. His mind’s still stuck on Frank though, so he doesn’t notice that the waitress bringing him his drink is the same small woman from the train, still clad in those grey overalls. But that is what makes it fatal. After he’d downed the entire glass, he leaves a crinkled-up ten-dollar note on the table, but when he tries to stand up, he can’t feel his legs. He can’t feel his arms.

 

Just as he starts to panic, everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "Minitrue" is the short-form of "Ministry of Truth" in Newspeak.
> 
> I kind of rushed this chapter, tbh, so that would explain the lesser quality of it in comparison to the other chapters. But it's nearing the start of school, and I can't afford to let it drag on - if I can't finish it before school starts I may never finish it, so.


	7. Mikey

Gerard had woken up in a shared holding cell.

 

The moment he came to, he knew he was inside the Ministry of Love. He just knew. He had been propped up on one of the three concrete benches that lined and protruded from the walls, his back slumped and stiff. And there were others, still dressed in the clothes they had worn when they were caught. There were all kinds of criminals; there had been the odd political prisoner, like Gerard, but most of them were common criminals: smugglers, black-market merchants, petty thieves, beggars, drunks, prostitutes, and many more examples of depravity. Gerard had in particular flinched when he saw the prostitute taken away – immediately Frank and his lovely smile had flitted through his mind – but he remained stoic, for the most part.

 

Occasionally, one of the guards patrolling outside would unlock the barred door to collect a fellow captive (presumably to march him towards the tortures), and there would be a new person thrust into the cell. In between these instances, there were just long periods of waiting. It might have been days, weeks, or even months of waiting – there was really no way of telling the time, because the lights were always on. And in that period of time, only one occurrence stuck in Gerard’s mind. It was one of those younger, fanatical Inner Party members, and he had only been kept in the cell for three days – four at most, before he was taken out again. Gerard could tell the kid was in for committing thoughtcrime; how exactly did that orthodox automaton end up thinking unorthodox thoughts is beyond Gerard, but there was no doubt about it. Because the kid had kicked and cried when he’d first arrived, screaming at the top of his lungs about how he wasn’t the one they wanted to capture, how he could tell them all about his friends and their filthy, unorthodox conversations, if they would just _let him go_. Of course, a bark from the speakers mounted on the walls of the cell had quickly shut him up, but as soon as the guards came to collect him, oh, how he’d gone back to hollering the same things again. He’d latched onto the nearest object when they started to drag him out forcefully – and that object turned out to be edge of the bench Gerard was sat on, so Gerard saw it all play out before his eyes: the kid, reduced to a sobbing mess, had offered to tell them anything again. The kid had screamed as he pointed at Gerard, “That gentleman over there, I know what he’s really done, what he’s hiding!” And when they had given a particularly hard yank, the kid had just started blubbering without any incoherency. “He did it – I didn’t do it!” He was quite possibly still referring to Gerard, but the kid was already too far gone. He’d just started pointing randomly at the different captives within the cell. “You want him, or him – just, not me! Please, not me!” And Gerard had watched him mutely, face bearing no sympathy, as the kid was finally towed out of the cell. His screeches had rung and trailed into the cell from the hallway, turning into faint echoes as he was dragged away.

 

But the kid’s animalistic howls had continued to ring in Gerard’s head, and his wild, desperate eyes had haunted Gerard for the rest of his stay in the cell. He kept wondering if he would be reduced to the very same state in his last moments.

 

That question was very quickly answered when they finally took Gerard away. When they came for him – “77409, Way”, that’s his name now, just a bunch of numbers and his surname – he’d just stood up without a sound and followed them out. He’s resigned, through and through. He had been running away from the police for a long time, but they have finally caught up, and there is no way to escape. Everything is over.

 

*

 

_“Never again will you be capable of ordinary human feeling. Everything will be dead inside you. Never again will you be capable of love, or friendship, or joy of living, or laughter, or curiosity, or courage, or integrity. You will be hollow. We shall squeeze you empty, and then we shall fill you with ourselves.”_

_\-- Part III, Chapter II,_ 1984

 

There was a shorter period of waiting, when he was first relocated to an isolated, single-person prison cell, before he was finally taken to a small room to be ‘re-educated and reintegrated’. There, he spends hours and days in the company of a gaunt, bespectacled man, who has gangly limbs, light brown hair parted to one side and slicked back nice and neat, and a face that never smiles. Déjà vu hit Gerard when he first entered the room and saw the man sat at the desk; there’s just something about his face that reminds Gerard of somebody he used to know, and it keeps plaguing him throughout his entire rehabilitation session with the man, but he can’t put a finger on who it is exactly.

 

In the first stage of the re-education, the man allows Gerard to ask questions. Gerard almost asks whether he’s known the man before, but he doesn’t. He asks about his capture instead, how they found about him. “Your journal. The antique shop proprietor is also a member of the Thought Police, just to clarify. And of course, there are the telescreens. The Party takes no risks. There are telescreens everywhere, you know that,” the man answers with a frighteningly calm expression. Then, as if sensing what Gerard’s thinking, he adds, “Yes, even in Frank’s flat. He just didn’t know it.”

 

“Oh.” It’s a dull sound. Gerard wonders if his spirit is already broken. “Where is Frank now?”

 

“Labour camp,” the man drawls in his monotone, and Gerard isn’t even the slightest bit shocked. He must have been more or less expecting this, although he’d rather they shoot them both. He thinks of all the rumoured hardships people are subject to in the camps, but the man interrupts his thoughts.

 

“You must be worrying about Frank.” Gerard nods, amazed. So far, that man has never failed to read his mind. “Frank is not your concern now. He is a fragment of your past. Right now what you need to focus on is the reintegration. The sooner we fix your head, the sooner you’ll be released back into the society.”

 

“But I’m not crazy,” Gerard says with a quiet voice.

 

“No, you’re not, but you might as well be, by the Party’s standards. You are severely disillusioned about the world. If you think you can change anything by yourself, you’re wrong. You are the last of the dying breed that still clings onto the ideals that once defined mankind.” There is nothing passionate about the man’s voice when he delivers the speech; his voice is sharp, precise, clinical, and in less surreal settings Gerard would’ve shivered.

 

“And now, you must learn to think the way you were taught to.” The man heads over to one side of the room to uncover a machine that had previously been concealed by shadows. What follows is a blur of electroshock and questioning. If Gerard got the answers wrong, he would get the highest voltage. If he chose the right answer but didn’t really understand why it was the right answer, he was still given the highest voltage. “The point is not to have you answer accordingly. You are a very intelligent man, Gerard. It isn’t that hard to learn to perform doublethink.” Doublethink is the ability to hold two contradictory thoughts in one’s head at the same time; Gerard had indeed never understood how it worked. It seemed entirely impossible to him, yet, in the midst of the pounding headaches caused by the torture, he’s managed to grasp the beginnings of it. Gerard wonders if his spirit is really that easily broken. But that can’t be the case, he thinks to himself, because through it all, even when his vision starts to swim, and his body starts convulsing, he still loves Frank.

 

“We aren’t breaking your spirit yet; just reshaping the way you see the world. And you’ve done very well,” the man says; it’s not a praise, just a factual statement. But what he announces next shatters any lingering thought of rebellion.

 

“The final stage of your re-education will be continued in Room 101.”  _That is where your spirit will be broken,_ the man doesn't say, but Gerard knows it.

 

*

 

The man escorts Gerard down a maze of corridors, before they turn into a seemingly endless, narrow hallway. It’s high-ceilinged, the cold, metallic blue walls stretching upwards forever into the dark. The lighting throws menacing shadows over the face of the nameless man walking beside Gerard. He looks away. To one side is a row of rooms, all their doors shut. Upon closer inspection, Gerard discovers they’re all numbered 101.

 

“They are all Room 101,” The man confirms, again reading Gerard’s mind. “They all cater to different fears. Yours is needles, right?”

 

Gerard nods, swallowing thickly. He is numb, but fear isn’t absent in his chest.

 

“Your room is over there.” They walk down the hallway in silence, until they arrive at a room guarded by two other officers, dressed in the same uniform as the man that’s been re-educating Gerard.

 

“Mikey Way,” the guards greet, nodding at the strangely familiar man beside Gerard, and the man – Mikey, nods curtly at the two guards in response. Gerard doesn’t catch the names of the two guards, because he is too busy making the connections in his head. He thinks, light brown bird-nest like hair, recalls large, lopsided glasses, and tiny feet trailing behind him and following him everywhere. _Best friend_ , he thinks. _Little brother_ , he thinks, and feels his stomach drop.

 

Just as Mikey is about to turn around and leave, Gerard darts out a hand to hold onto his arm. He needs to know for sure. “You’re my brother?” Gerard blurts out just as the guards looming behind him move to pull Gerard back, and Mikey signals for them to relax.

 

“Yes,” He answers, still as cool and calm. He doesn’t look apologetic at all.

 

Gerard’s silent for a moment, and he almost watches Mikey go, but he shouts out just as the guards open the door to the Room 101 behind him. “What happened to mom and dad?”

 

“I denounced them.” He says this simply, his face still the same infuriating display of neutrality, and turns on his heels to leave. He doesn’t even say goodbye. Gerard doesn’t really feel anything afterwards – not even when the guards escort him into the room, not even when the door swings shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I'll explain Mikey in the epilogue. And if you're wondering what happens inside Room 101, well, just read the book. I don't want to recreate what happens to Winston Smith (that is the protagonist of 1984, jsyk), because that's pretty much Gerard's ending too. The simple answer is that, yeah, he stops loving Frank after he's released from the Ministry of Love, because of the torture in Room 101.
> 
> Sorry guys. But there's no way I'm giving him a happy ending in a dystopia like this. 1984 isn't meant to be optimistic. If you want optimistic, just read the Killjoy comics. I've heard it's pretty good ;)


	8. Epilogue

In the year 2019, a humble paediatrician, Donald Way, married the neighbourhood kindergarten teacher, Donna. Six years later, Donna Way gave birth to their first son, Gerard Arthur Way. Thus Belleview saw the beginnings of another middle-class family.

 

Both parents were upstanding and responsible in bringing up their son. Somehow inheriting the knack for the arts from the maternal side of the family, Gerard took a liking to drawing. By the age of six, he had filled every colouring book in the house, while his parents had looked on with fond smiles. Indeed, Gerard spent his first few years in a happy home.

 

That didn’t last long. 2031 saw a new addition to the Way family: a little brother, Michael James Way, affectionately known as Mikey. In the same year, the Socialist Party won the elections. In the space of three years, they had passed a multitude of new laws. For one, America was no longer America. It was Oceania, a joint country with Britain and Australia. The Party also nationalised the last of the privatised businesses, although both Donna and Donald had managed to retain their occupations. What really impacted the Way family was the change in the education system – it was made compulsory and free for all, and everything, from the staff to the general syllabus, right down to the textbooks, became closely monitored by the government. By the time Gerard had started going to elementary school, what was once the American education system was practically unrecognisable.

 

Still submerged in the bliss of ‘maximum equality for all’, as the new laws dictate, most Oceanian citizens were indifferent to these changes. But Donna Way knew better. Her ways of teaching became heavily scrutinised; yet, in the beginning, it wasn’t that bad. She could still get away with rationales and justifications, but the suddenly irrationally patriotic themes in the state-issued teaching materials caught her eye. This was when she caught wind of the Resistance. It was just an underground movement at the time, but she was always an idealist at heart, and she truly believed it would’ve made a change. She started helping the Resistance in whichever way she can, while keeping it a secret from the rest of her family.

 

Once the changes in the education system came to full effect, those under the age of eighteen were systematically allotted places in schools and institutions. There was really nothing the Ways could do but watch as their two sons enrolled in the state-funded boarding schools. Mikey was only eight at the time.

 

In the first year, Gerard would still return home to visit his parents during the holidays – out of homesickness and loyalty – but as time had gone on, the visits became scarcer and scarcer, until he stopped visiting altogether. But Mikey? Mikey had stopped visiting within the first year. Kids forget easily, and spending time away from your parents, only to be immersed in all sorts of exciting extra-curricular activities at school really kept them away from home. Youth Group was compulsory, and camping trips, self-organised fairs and parades were really distracting. Both boys gradually lost touch with their parents, and eventually, with each other.

 

Gerard was less susceptible to the indoctrination scattered throughout his education, of course, but Mikey was much younger. While Gerard fared well at school, being the intelligent kid he was, Mikey was really the prime example of the new generation of intelligentsia. The generation that never regarded what they were taught with dubiety, and would denounce their own parents without a second thought. But Mikey was special; he managed to retain the ability to think for himself. When they started teaching more complex concepts in secondary education, concepts such as doublethink, he had no problem at all grasping the mechanics behind it. While Gerard would imitate, Mikey really _understood_.

 

And because Gerard never visited home anymore, it was only 6 months after it had happened that he knew his parents were gone. Vaporised. He grieved silently, but he never asked about the details. The truth was Mikey had found out about Donna’s involvement in the Resistance and exposed her to the Thought Police. He denounced their father not long after, finding a romance novel in his study that preached of mutual attraction and loyalty between individuals. Mikey was twelve years-old then, just about old enough to have the anti-sex teachings drilled into his head.

 

Anybody else in his year group would’ve done the same, really.

 

The Way brothers both graduated with promising grades and got into higher education without trouble. They were both hired to work in one of the four ministries that upheld the Party afterwards, but Mikey excelled far beyond his brother. He rose to the status of an Inner Party member within the first year, and after fifteen years of working in the Ministry of Love, he’s worked his way up to be on the team that’s actually in charge of the reintegration of thoughtcriminals.

 

He just never thought that's where he'll see his brother again.

 

_“Under the spreading chestnut tree,_  
 _I sold you and you sold me:_  
 _There lie they, and here lie we,_  
 _Under the spreading chestnut tree.”_

_– Part I: Chapter VII,_ 1984

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all of it. Comments would be appreciated muchly ^_^ This is my first planned and completed chaptered story after all. (I'm aware it's not very good, that there is kinda a lack of character development here. My excuse is I'm pretty much exhausted 24/7 nowadays...)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading. If you liked this fic, why not check out my other ones as well? :)
> 
> ETA 1: Oh and yeah, I moved that quote of the poem from the ending of the last chapter to this chapter. I also changed the year mentioned in CH4 to match the years mentioned in this chapter. :P
> 
> ETA 2: [Shit just got real.](http://20pebblesinmywagon.tumblr.com/post/59217705554/why-geogre-orwell-s-1984-was-right) Oops.
> 
> ETA 3: Heh, I just realised that in the book the resistance group is actually called the Brotherhood, not 'the Resistance'. Oh well, I guess that only makes it sound more equal in gender.


End file.
